


Can't Scream Loud Enough

by RosieTheRiveter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Hopeful Ending, Mild Language, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:27:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieTheRiveter/pseuds/RosieTheRiveter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has left the bunker after his talk with Sam (Post The Purge).  He is very affected by the turn of relationship with Sam and all the life events that has led him to this point.  No MoC Storyline has entered yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Scream Loud Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This story talks about depression and suicide and alcohol as a self-medication. There may be some triggers. 
> 
> I have personal experience with depression and suicidal thoughts. I do not take it lightly and know that there is no magic wand-waving to fix depression. I had a Soldier of mine commit suicide a little over a year ago and it was one of the worst days of my life. Please, if you or someone you know is suffering from depression or is having thoughts of suicide, please seek help.
> 
> Give this story a chance, I try to leave it on a hopeful note.

“Sir?”

“Hm?”

“I said, did you want coffee?”

Dean looked down at the shabby Formica topped table and the ubiquitous diner mug trying to register the question in his brain.

Coffee. Coffee. Did he want coffee? No, he did not.

“uh - Y- yeah. Thanks.” He nodded.

The tired waitress poured the dark brew into the mug and gave him a raised eyebrow but not much further thought. In her line of work, she came across more than her fair share of strange ones. This one was prettier than most, but then again, who was to say what went on inside someone’s head – no matter what they looked like.

Dean wrapped his cold hands around the mug, trying to leach warmth from the ceramic, but he neither drank it nor did much with the food on his plate other than pour a puddle of ketchup beside the fries and then stare at it.

He wasn’t even sure why he had stopped at the roadside diner. It had been a while since he’d even been hungry so it was mostly out of habit.

He tried to remember when he had last really enjoyed a meal. I mean really enjoyed it, the flavors and the juiciness of a burger, the tang of ketchup and salty-sweetness of bacon mingling. Hot, greasy fries straight from the fryer scalding his tongue.

Now everything just tasted like sand.

Liquor was the only thing he relished anymore. Not the taste of it, no. The burn, the hazy feeling in his head and the way it made him not care that he didn’t care.

Dean pulled out his wallet listlessly, tugged out a couple of bills, figuring it would be more than plenty, tossed it on the table and slid out of the booth, food barely touched, full cup of coffee growing cold. He walked past the jewel-case of rotating pies without so much as a glance.

Walking slowly out to the Impala, he slid into the driver’s seat. When was the last time he enjoyed driving? The roar of Baby’s engine, the sound of Zeppelin or AC/DC blasting out of the speakers, singing loudly and off-key to the songs he’d played a half a million times since he was a kid?

Now he just drove. The sound of music made the dull ache in his chest worse.

Dean looked over at the empty passenger seat where Sam was supposed to be. He remembered the way his kid brother would roll his eyes as Dean sang along with Robert Plant or Bon Scott. And Dean would laugh and they’d stop somewhere to hustle pool or dispatch a vampire. It didn’t matter which so long as they were doing it together. He loved his life. Sleeping more than four hours at a time just took away from all the fun they could be having. And what was more fun than the life they had? Certainly not getting up everyday to do the same boring crap at the same boring place with the same boring people. They lived the dream. Maybe not many would think so, but those people didn’t count.

He used to be able to drive all night after killing a werewolf or digging up a grave and salting & burning a corpse. Hell, he would laugh at Sammy for being a sleepyhead for racking out after an eighteen-hour hunt while it amped up his own adrenaline for at least a day.

Now, the sight of the open road just made him tired. The thought of another hunt made him weary.

Everything seemed to sap his energy. Sure, he could still fight, he could defend himself when he had to; he simply didn’t care anymore. If he ganked some demon or got ganked himself, it was all the same to him. He mentally shrugged. What the fuck difference did it make? Everyone he cared about was dead or hated his guts.

Well, Cas still cared he guessed, but he _shouldn’t_. Look what happened to that poor bastard.

When Cas met Dean - and by “met” he meant Cas pulled his demon-wannabe-slash-torturer-in-training ass out of Hell and put him back together like a jigsaw puzzle made out of hamburger meat and then walked into a barn under a hail of shotgun fire without so much as a give-a-fuck, even when Dean stabbed him in the chest.

And to be honest, given that was the most bad-ass thing Dean’d ever seen, he’d nearly pissed himself.

Where was I? Oh yeah - when Cas met Dean - Castiel had been a friggin’ Angel of the Lord, a celestial wavelength of intent, a creature of such immense power that his true visage was the size of the Chrysler building and he could smite you with a touch of his finger - and you better friggin’ show him some respect or he could throw your ass back in that fiery pit from whence you came, Goddamn it.

But of course, Dean being Dean, he just wise-assed and smirked Cas into submission.

Like he did with everything and everyone else.

He _was_ a wise-ass. Everyone knew that. The cock-sure, too good-looking-for-his-own-good, ladies man with a panty-dropper smile that could have a good time at a funeral and pick up a date for later to boot. He always had a one-liner, never took anything seriously and could find a dirty innuendo in a church sermon. He drank too much, drove too fast and ate like a teenager.

He didn’t even call him Castiel. He called him Cas. He gave an Angel of The Lord a nickname, like he was his frat buddy or something.

You’ve heard the term Fallen from Grace? Well that was what Cas did. Cas had fallen for him. And by that he meant Fallen. Like from Heaven. For him.

And who the Hell needs that kind of pressure and responsibility anyway?

Castiel, Angel of The Lord (Capital **T** \- Capital **L** ) turned his back on Heaven and became friends with The Winchesters - something that never ends well for anyone, including an Angel of the Lord.

Inevitably, through a series of events too lengthy to go over one more damn time, Cas lost his Grace because he chose to defy Heaven and the Host of Angels that were his family. Because of Dean’s fine example - and what a sad, stupid thing to do. Because Dean knew he sure as Hell wasn’t worth it. And Hell was one thing Dean knew well.

Cas had managed to obtain some mojo from another dick Angel so now Cas was somewhere between Angel and Human, between Heaven and Earth.

Poor sap didn’t know which end was up half the time. Oh sure, he knew how to fix a slushy machine and nuke taquitos - something an Angel of The Friggin’ Lord should never have had to learn to do. And that was on Dean too. Because he’d chucked the poor bastard out into the world when he was powerless and as clueless and innocent and defenseless as a child.

He hated himself for that. But what was else was he gonna do? He did as he always did, what John Winchester had always made sure he knew to do. Keep an eye on Sammy, make sure he’s safe, make sure he’s taken care of. It was his job from the time he was four. He had lost his mother in the most horrific way possible but he wasn’t allowed to wallow in his mourning, he had to take care of his brother and that’s just all there was to it. No sense in being a baby about it.

He really didn’t know who he was if he didn’t have Sam to look out for. So was it any wonder when given the choice between letting Sam die or letting what he _thought_ was a decent Angel slip inside him for a while to heal him, he made the decision that seemed the lesser of two evils?

He made the only decision that there really was to make. He knew Sam would hate it but it was either that or decide to let Sam die and that was just not an option. He knew Sam would hate him for it but it was what it was.

If someone had given him the no-win-option of cutting off Sam’s hand or his own, he’d cut his own off without a second thought to the pain. Then he’d wrap it up and drive on with the business at hand – pun intended. No need for dramatics about it.

The funny part of the cutesy nickname he had given their little band of misfits “Team Free Will” was that he’d never had real choices given to him. Because a choice between a shitty outcome and an even shittier one is really no choice at all, is it?

So he made the shitty choice for Sammy to live with an Angel tucked secretly inside him and when that Angel had threatened to leave Sam for dead if Dean didn’t throw Cas out, he’d made the shitty choice to kick Cas out of the bunker.

Neither was something he _wanted_ to do. It was just the _other_ options given to him were shittier. Simple, right?

Cas forgave him for kicking him out into the wilds of the human race. He’d forgiven him, understood, even felt bad for _him_ even though Dean knew he didn’t deserve his sympathy. Cas always forgave and came back for more. He was a glutton for punishment he guessed. Maybe he was meant to be a Winchester after all. Though he suspected the forgiveness from Cas had something to do with the fact that Kevin had just gotten - smote? smited? smitten? - right in front of Dean’s eyes by the lying bastard angel wearing his brother. Dean took full responsibility for Kevin’s death, knew he’d wind up back in Hell for it and he figured Cas just didn’t want to pile more onto the already neck-high shit just then.

When Cas screwed up – and when he did, he did so epically – The Winchesters forgave him. It’s the way it was supposed to work in this family dammit. No matter how epically you screwed up, you eventually got forgiven.

But apparently there was a line somewhere Dean didn’t know about and Sam had found that line.

Dean realized he’d been sitting, staring at the keys in his hand for a good while. The sun had started to dip low and he figured he’d better head out on the road. He had no destination. Just driving. Some hotel. Somewhere. Nowhere. It was all the same to him.

All he knew was he wasn’t heading to the Bunker where Sam was and where Cas probably visited from time to time to check on Sammy. And that was what mattered. He had never felt homeless until he’d left Sam behind and Cas had stayed with him.

*

Dean flopped on the lumpy mattress; his head propped up on the ancient pillow, the bedding smelling like too much bleach. But, he figured too much bleach was always a good thing in crappy motels like these and he tried not to think about it too much.

He took a long swig of one of the bottles of whiskey he’d picked up on his way into town, not bothering with a glass. He wasn’t planning on sharing it and no one was around to impress with his fancy manners.

The burn was nice and he closed his eyes.

He took a deep breath and tried to feel something. Anything. But there was little more than a dull, tightening in his chest. A big empty chasm of nothing under that.

Deep, deep down, too far to even reach, there was something. Pain, horror, memories.

He tried to force himself to feel enough to cry or to get angry. Nothing yet.

Another long pull off the bottle just started to make his brain fuzzy. That was the goal.

Sometimes he could drink enough to bring the dulled, buried emotions to the surface and he would curl into himself and sob until his breath came out in gasps and he raked his fingernails down his arms, forming bloody welts.

He’d deny it of course. No son of John Winchester cries like a friggin’ teenaged girl whose prom date stood her up.

But even those nights, as bad as they were, he could never cry hard enough or scream loud enough or hurt himself enough to make the pain go away. So it would sink back down deep like a cancer that wasn’t fully excised, dulling the surface once again.

When he’d get beaten and bloody on a hunt, it felt good to him. He could focus on the physical pain, the broken bones, the bruises and cuts, those felt raw and alive.

But usually, he’d haul his ass back to the motel, a feeling of pervading hopelessness making it almost impossible to stand. The days were getting more and more impossible to face; each morning he awoke more tired than the day before and dreaded the thought of even getting out of bed. What was the point anymore?

When his phone chirped, he hardly recognized it as Sam’s ringtone since he hadn’t heard it in a good long while. Still, he considered ignoring it. He really needed another dose of guilt like he needed a big swig of arsenic with a razorblade chaser. Still, the guilt was his penance and if Sam wanted to dish out some more, Dean would pony-up to the table for another helping-full.

He took another long pull off the bottle and steeled himself before tapping the button to answer and pressing it to his ear, “Sam?” Dean’s voice sounded as if he’d not used it for days – which to be honest, he really hadn’t.

“Dean?” Dean, as always could tell Sam’s emotions by his voice, even over the phone. He sounded worried which was not what he’d been expecting at all.

“Yeah Sam. You called my phone – who’d you expect to pick up? “

“Well – I – uh, I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Yeah, well - you kinda sounded like you wanted that way Sam. Remember?”

“You were the one that took off. It’s been weeks since you’ve checked in. Cas says even he hasn’t heard from you.”

Dean had been avoiding calling Cas or even trying to pray to him.

He knew Cas would come here and try to talk to him. Try to persuade him with logic and reasoning to not feel this way anymore.

But this thick miasma of misery was not something he could be talked out of. This feeling, whatever it was, however it was to be labeled, he had it wrapped around him like a blanket. It felt protective, and he of it. It was his, whatever it was and he didn’t need help; didn’t want help. He deserved whatever this feeling was. It sounded sick even to him but he almost needed to feel this way to assuage his guilt like a flagellate that would scourge himself with a whip.

“Yeah – I haven’t talked to Cas in a while.” He replied lamely. “I’ve – been busy. You know how it is.”

“Yeah – well look – we’re both worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I’m fine Sam. Just like always. OK? I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“That would be a lot easier if I believed you.”

_‘Please just leave it alone Sammy.’_ He thought but didn’t reply. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. He just wanted to get off the phone and down the rest of this bottle. Maybe he’d get too drunk to wake up for a good long while.

“At least tell me where you are.”

“Uh – I’m uh – “ Dean tried to think. He didn’t even know where the Hell he was. Because he just didn’t give a crap really. He looked at the placard on the bedside phone and replied, “Uh – I’m in a little town called Defiance, Iowa”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s only got like 500 people. Good diner though.” He lied. “I rented a room above for a few days.”

“You on a case? You need help?”

“Nah. I thought it was something – it uh – turned out to be nothin’. I’ll move on tomorrow.” He lied again. He might just stick around for a while and get serious with this drinking.

“Well – why don’t you head here? You’re only a couple hundred miles away. You could be here by tomorrow night. You could sleep in your own bed. Memory foam and all that.”

Dean smiled sadly. His own room. That used to be something that would make him happy; his own room, his own bed, sheets that had not been slept in by a thousand skeevy travelers, his own memory foam mattress, his things on the walls and in the dresser drawers. Sitting down to a meal he’d prepared in his own kitchen and serving his family – dysfunctional as they were - at their own table. He knew he’d never be able to have that life.

And dammit, Sam sounded like he actually wanted to connect. Maybe Sam had forgiven him or maybe was halfway on his way to - and maybe that was something. Maybe that was the crack in the door, the pinpoint of light at the end of the tunnel.

Dean felt panic rise in his chest. A buzzing in his ears that had nothing to do with the liquor he’d consumed. He couldn’t talk any more and try to sound stable and normal. He had to get off the phone before his throat closed over that feeling and his voice started to shake.

Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort of trying to sound normal and not on the verge of a mental breakdown. “Uh – yeah, no I don’t think so Sam. I – uh – I got stuff to do. Maybe another time.”

Dean look – “

“I gotta go Sam. You take care of yourself, OK? Tell Cas I said hi.”

“Dean wait – “

Dean pressed the end button to cut him off, then turned off the phone entirely because Sam was nothing if not persistent and he’d just keep calling to try and talk this out. Dean didn’t need to talk.

The choking breaths that came out scared him. What was it about his brother’s concern that made him feel worse? He wanted that closeness again but pushed it away. It would be too painful if that wasn’t what Sam was offering and he didn’t want to know for certain that his brother still hated him.

He needed to get as smashed as he fucking could. If he were lucky, maybe he’d just not wake up again.

*

Dean woke to his body being violently shaken awake. He reached for the knife under his pillow to stab who or whatever creature was attacking him. But the knife he always had within his reach was gone.

So he started swinging but was blocked easily by the hulking form above him.

“Looking for this?” Sam held up the knife and then tossed it aside.

“What the ever-loving-fuck are you doing!?” Dean rubbed at his bleary-eyes. “I was sleeping.” His head felt as if there were elves with jack-hammers in his brain.

Sam pulled one of his patented bitch-faces “Dean – you were passed out cold. I had to pick the lock to get in. I thought you were dead.”

“Where’s m-shirt?” Dean looked around for his tee-shirt, which Sam found and tossed him.

“Cas is here too. He drove me here. We’ll take the Impala back to the bunker.”

“No Sam. We won’t. I’m not going back.” He finished pulling on his shirt and slid off the bed with some difficulty.

“Dean.”

“No Sam!” Dean shouted then winced. “Sam – “ he started in a much quieter tone of voice, but no less adamant, “- I’m not going back with you.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I eat Sam – you know me.”

“Yeah – I do. And you look like you’ve dropped ten pounds.”

Dean looked at Sam with a ‘ _you’re fucking nuts’_ look on his face. He knew he probably looked like crap and his pants seemed a bit loose, but he was fine. “I’m fine.”

“Dean - Look – “

“– I can’t do it, ok? I can’t I’m too tired. I can’t go back and live in the Bunker with you.”

“Why not? I thought we were going to try and work together?”

“Yeah. Work together. As partners - not brothers. I just – “ Dean shook his head, ran his hand over his eyes and looked around for the bottle of whiskey he didn’t finish. He _really_ didn’t need to be sober right now.

“Dean - what? What were you going to say?”

“I have no idea. Sam. OK? I have no idea what I’m thinking anymore. I just know that the life we used to have, that’s gone now. You and me? That is so screwed six ways to Sunday there’s no fixing it - and I did that. I fucked that up. You have every right to hate me. You don’t trust me, you can’t. And that’s on me. I know that. I’m not blaming you. I’m just too much of a coward to go back and have to look in your eyes everyday knowing that the brother I thought I had doesn’t want me in his life anymore. After all the shit we’ve been through, it all comes down to that- and I can’t do it.”

“Dean –“

He found the bottle he was looking for and turned his back to his brother. “No, Sam.” He said quietly, barely able to grind out the words, “Just - leave me here.”

When he felt Sam leave the room, he opened the bottle and tilted it back, the burning liquid coated his throat and he welcomed the feeling. His stomach had other ideas though and he ran for the bathroom, vomiting up what he had drunk. He splashed water onto his face and rinsed his mouth. The rough towel felt good as he scrubbed it roughly across his face, trying to get the blood moving. Dean studied his reflection and tried to see what Sam did. He needed a shave and his eyes were dull along with dark circles. Admittedly, he’d lost some weight but he’d had no appetite to speak of in a while. OK, so he looked like shit. How was he supposed to look?

“Hello Dean.” Dean jumped at the voice of his friend.

“Cas. I thought you guys left.”

“Sam thought it best if he left you alone but no, we haven’t left town yet.”

“Obviously.”

“He’s at the diner getting you some breakfast. He wanted me to come talk to you.”

“I don’t want any breakfast. I’m fine. Just – you two just need to go home and leave me alone.”

“You are obviously not fine Dean. Sam can see that. Anyone with eyes can see that. And of course, as you know, I can often hear your thoughts. They are very – disconcerting.”

“You eavesdropping on me Cas?”

“Dean – when you think as loudly as you do, it is often difficult to turn you off. I am not “eavesdropping”.” Cas made his quotey fingers and if Dean had not been ready to chuck him violently out the door, he may have smiled.

“So what, Cas? You here to do some kind of intervention? Stop me from drinking?”

“The drinking concerns me, yes. But I am speaking of the other thoughts.”

“What other thoughts Cas?” he leaned wearily against the bathroom sink and sighed.

Cas tilted his head and peered at Dean with the piercing blue eyes that always made Dean feel as if he could look right into his soul. Which, lets be honest, he could. “I am particularly concerned about the one you had last night when you were quite inebriated. It involved putting your gun in your mouth.” And Cas, being his usual blunt self came right out and asked, “Are you planning on killing yourself?”

Dean swallowed and couldn’t look at Cas. He could barely remember anything from the night prior, but he did remember sitting with his gun next to him and staring at it for a good long while as he emptied the bottle of whiskey. He supposed it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he’d had more than a passing thought about eating a bullet. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had that thought.

“I’m –“

“Dean, if you say that you are fine one more time, I’m going to punch you.” Dean almost laughed.

“Oh – that’s a great bedside manner you got there, Cas.” He snorted mirthlessly. “Threaten to beat up the suicidal freak!”

And there it was. Suicide. Probably the first time he’d thought of the actual word. Because when he thought about the possibility of what he could do with that gun - ending the pain, ending the horrific loneliness, ending his brother’s obligation to give a crap - he’d never thought of the word _suicide_ because it sounded so – so – tragic. So After School Special. So “Very Special Episode”. So, pathetic.

He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling cold suddenly.

“Do you remember what I told you about not wanting to see the mess I made of Heaven and if I did, I might kill myself?”

Dean nodded.

“So, I understand how you feel. But you need to allow us to help you.”

Cas gently put his hand on Dean’s jaw, contemplating this imperfect, perfect child of God who had no faith in Him. “Dean. This is what is going to happen. You are going to shower and get dressed. Then you are going to eat the food that Sam brings you. We are all going back to the bunker and you are going to sober up and get well. This is not an option. I am not asking your permission or if you would like to do this. Understand?”

“Cas – “

“Because we care about you Dean. We love you and you are not leaving us like this. Do you understand?”

Dean nodded once again.

When Sam returned, Dean was showered and shaved and ate the eggs and toast and coffee he was given. It tasted good.

He didn’t ask where the bottle of whiskey went.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks – you know – for coming to help. I know you said you wouldn’t”

“Dean.” Sam screwed up his face in sad annoyance. “I never said I would let you die or I wouldn’t help you. I meant that if you were dying and made a _choice_ to let go, I would respect it. Don’t get me wrong - I sure as hell am not going to let you go and kill yourself - but what I mean is – I wouldn’t trick you or lie to you. That’s a hell of a lot different than not giving a crap.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sam shook his head and got quiet. “But I – I understand. Why you did it? I get it.” Sam sighed. “And the whole thing about not being brothers - ?”

“Yeah?” Dean’s stomach dropped wondering if Sam was going to reiterate what he’d said.

“Yeah – uh – I didn’t mean it. I was pissed. I’m still pissed - I guess - a little. But I didn’t mean it. You’ll always be my pain in the ass big brother.”

Dean’s lip twitched upward slightly. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Cas smiled.

*

Sam drove the Impala back to the bunker, Cas following in that ridiculous gold Cadillac that was so incongruent to what you would think of when you thought of an Angel of the Lord - but somehow it suited Cas’ weirdness. Dean noticed Cas had put in a new set of purple fuzzy dice. It seemed appropriate.

On the ride back, Sam even played Dean’s old cassette tapes and sang, very loudly and very out of tune until Dean smirked a little and sang along. Granted, he did it barely loud enough for Sam to hear but it was something. A concession. A nod to what they used to have.

Everything wasn’t perfect. It may never be – and you don’t just go from wanting to die to being OK without a lot of help and healing. But Dean realized his family wasn’t going to let him go it alone anymore.

And as he watched the sun sink lower in the sky over the open road, dusting the golden hills of wheat with a gentle pink-gold, Dean thought for the first time in a long time that maybe he looked forward to seeing it rise again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Phone Number
> 
> 1-800-273-8255


End file.
